


I'm not...

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [70]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1998), First Person, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-05
Updated: 2011-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August 1998: Something of the companion piece to 'I am...'; another day in the life as Turnbull and Vecchio work on figuring it all out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm not...

\--  
 _I'm not..._  
\--

...usually an early morning kinda guy. I never was. See, people think being a detective is a nine-to-five job, but it ain't; tracking down people, making calls, all that happens at any hour, and it's not really shift work, unless you're behind a desk like I still am. Usually, I like working afternoons and evenings, after people get off work and go home and get easier to catch.

The sun's just barely over the horizon when I leave the house, and all the birds are chirping. No Frannie this morning. There's all this dew on the tiny little section of grass in front of the house, and it sparkles. The air's got that chill in it still, you know? That edge. I guess I kinda like it.

I think I do, anyway.

I'm not usually a morning kinda guy, but since I got back from Vegas, I don't sleep. Not like normal people sleep. I know some shrink would probably wanna have fun with that, go into all the ways that I'm screwing myself up, talk about whatever Daddy-issues, put me on a couch, make me do breathing exercises, all that useless crap that fixes nothing.

I don't sleep like normal people sleep, so I see a lot of mornings these days, and I drive before I go into work. Whatever direction. Any direction. No one drives me, these days, 'cept Ren. And that's different, 'cause I trust him to, 'cause I'm right beside him and not in the backseat. 'Cause he's the furthest fucking thing from Las Vegas I've ever met; even Benny had something dark in him, something I couldn't fix for him, something... I dunno, self-sacrificing or self-destructive or self-punishing.

But Ren's not like that; the further you get into his soul, the more you see how damn _bright_ he is. Not bright like genius, though he's smart. Not bright like saint, either, though. He ain't that. But bright like something that burns. Like sunlight.

I don't know if he's gonna warm me or burn me sometimes. I know he'd never mean to do the latter, but it sometimes scares me almost as much as the fact that he's capable of the former.

He's not perfect, I know he's got problems. Something hurt him somewhere; men don't build walls as good and complex as his, they don't wear masks as clever as that, without there being a reason. But when you get past those -- and man, they're really good, 'cause you know, they aren't a lie, they're just facets of himself he can show, those make the best walls -- you get to see something pretty amazing.

Something had to hurt him somewhere; men don't build walls like that without a reason.

I know. 'Cause I'm not usually a morning kinda guy. We guard ourselves in different ways.

He flashes reflections. I drive.

\--  
 _I'm not..._  
\--

...a toy.

I'm not a tin soldier, a wind-up doll, a stuffed animal. I am not a child, and I am not helpless. I am not weak, nor am I starved for affection or attention as so many people seem to believe. I am not a toy.

It galls me that sometimes, I feel as though I am.

It galls me further that sometimes, I tolerate it from anyone, or from myself.

There is that time when I walk, winding my way to the Consulate, when I feel almost equal to the day ahead; in my mind's eye, I inevitably picture the open prairie lands of Saskatchewan, golden now this time of the year. Chicago is nothing like that, and that was nothing like Toronto; each time, I have had to carve some place for myself where I can survive.

I am not a toy. I am most certainly not helpless.

I know where they get these notions; I am all of the things they associate with an attention-starved, affection-starved, hopeless creature. I fluster too easily under the right sorts of pressure, and I do genuinely want the approval of those I admire. I like people. I like _pleasing_ people, but I don't believe they understand that the joy is in simply doing so, not in any bid for affection. I enjoy giving of my time, devotion and attention to the things I care about, but others tend to view it as desperation, and Lord help me, I often allow them to believe such things simply so they don't dive any deeper than that.

All of this culminates in the thought that names have meaning.

I am Constable Turnbull; that is an identity I present the world at large, and it's a truth; I'm not lying when I show this side of myself. I have earned my title. I've heard various whispers in Depot that my father paid for my graduation -- if such things were true, I would not have graduated near last in my class. I've heard whispers since coming to Chicago that I must be either brain-damaged or, conversely, a genius in disguise. I have heard any number of theories about who I am, and invariably, they are wrong.

I allow them to have their theories simply because the truth is entirely too personal.

It's near enough to make me laugh: The truth is, I'm human.

I survived Depot, not because of an influential father, but because I refused to allow them to drive me out based on allegations against my sexuality, as though I am somehow defective because I do not believe love comes with three predetermined settings, two of which are unacceptable.

I came to Chicago because I...

Because I...

No.

No.

I am Constable Turnbull. I am not a toy, tin-soldier; I am not brain-damaged, a genius, a madman, an empty red suit. I'm not helpless, and I am not weak, and I am not starved for attention or affection.

I'm human.

But I allow people to believe what they will, anyway.

\--  
 _I'm not..._  
\--

...sure I'm ever gonna fit in at the 2-7 again. Not sure about anything, really. I mostly don't let myself think about it, though, 'cause if I thought about it for too long, I think I might not be able to make myself come back. But what the hell else can I do with myself? I ain't bowling alley material. I ain't really material for anything, except this.

Maybe not even this anymore. I dunno.

My desk looks just like I left it yesterday, and I get myself a cup of coffee and go over to do paperwork, since that's all I'm allowed to do right now, and I try and pretend I actually know what the hell I'm doing. But I haven't known for a real long time. Eventually, somebody's gonna see through me.

Eventually, they're gonna see right through my cover.

See, I still care about these people. Y'know? I _missed_ them. I wasn't allowed to miss anything in Vegas, but I did anyway. I missed my family, I missed my co-workers. I missed the way Welsh gives me that look like I'm the biggest idiot in the world and he'd never throw me to the wolves. I missed the way Huey would talk crap at me sometimes, but I never doubted he'd back me up. I missed Elaine, I missed Louis, even though he was gone long before I left; I missed everyone.

I missed 'em. They didn't miss me, though, not like that.

I guess I gotta be grateful for that.

They miss Kowalski. I can see it on 'em. I don't blame 'em, entirely. Yeah, he dressed like a slob and he was twitchy, but it only took a little time to see he was a real stand-up guy, real open and vulnerable and the kinda guy that, shit, even _I_ would jump in front of a slug for. He projected that thing, like he really needed someone to watch out for him, and you know, I don't have a problem seeing why Benny ate that right up.

But I ain't Kowalski. And I don't think they missed me half as much as they miss him.

I'd like to pretend that Benny doesn't miss me, but I think he does. I think he misses me like you miss a worn sweater; reliable to keep you warm, safe, smells right, feels right, but you can live without it. It's old, but it's nice, you know? Comfortable and familiar. He would smile at me, and his face would light up, and it'd be like slipping into old times all over again.

Yeah.

Just like that.

I don't think he misses me, though, half as much as I miss him. He has Kowalski, and Kowalski needs him.

I'm grateful for that, too.

\--  
 _I'm not..._  
\--

...sure what today will bring. I sit at my desk, I go through my paperwork, I answer the phones and I try to guess which form today will present itself in.

There are some things I can predict, insofar as experience dictates: Inspector Thatcher will, at least once, bellow my name or appear in my door without warning, and I should rightfully be prepared for it, but I never am. It isn't that I fear her -- I don't, not quite -- but she knows how to catch me immediately off-guard and I find it exceedingly difficult to compose myself quickly when she does.

It was considerably easier working with Constable Fraser, even though it had taken me a painfully long time to realize that he did not quite understand my sense of humor. It perhaps shouldn't have taken me that long, but I believed that he was playing along with it and shared it. My own obliviousness to his misunderstanding lead to quite a bit of discomfort in the long-run; I know that I had taxed his patience and frustrated him.

I wish I had been more aware of it; it might have made a difference.

I'm not sure what today will bring, but I know that I will get to see Ray, either at lunch or after work. I try very hard not to be oblivious to him and his cues and his signals, and in all fairness, he is far more forthright in some ways than Constable Fraser was. Far less in others. It is not unlike Inspector Thatcher, where I may find myself caught off-guard, but typically the experience is far more pleasant when it's Ray Vecchio. A touch, or a kiss, or a look of warmth out of nowhere; little unbidden moments where his masks fall away and I realize again why, exactly, I fell in love with him.

I have realized something else: He is his most beautiful when I catch him off of his guard, surprising him with an irreverent joke or an unexpected thought. Then he looks at me, and something inside of him lights up, surprised or touched or affectionate or laughing.

It's so achingly rare when I get to see him unguarded like that.

I suppose that I understand too easily why: Being open to the joy means risking the hurt, and it seems that with Ray, both of those are tangled together in a way that there is no simple line to tell where one ends and the other begins.

I am still trying to find the line myself.

In the meantime, we do the best that we can. And that brings me again to the thought that names have _meaning_.

To the world, I am Constable Turnbull. To my family, I am Renfield.

To Ray, I am Ren.

I have never liked it when people have shortened my name. It's often done on the presumption that I cannot possibly answer to my given name and therefore, I must have a nickname, and they must have permission to use it, and then that I should be somehow _grateful_ for it -- again, that assumption that I am a lonely, affection-starved, attention-starved idiot.

I typically smile and endure it.

With Ray, though... it's different. There was _weight_ the first time he called me Ren, and I puzzled over my own reaction to it, which was surprise, but not displeasure. It was only later that I realized that he gave it to me, not in any effort to gain a familiarity I had not offered him, but to offer an opening to himself. An offer to pick me up for dinner was an offer to let me deeper into his life, even at a time when I was less than certain I belonged there, all with three letters of my name.

It makes me wonder if that was why he called Constable Fraser 'Benny', and perhaps, why Constable Fraser accepted it so warmly.

In retrospect, it fills me with some measure of both fear and awe that I was the one who could help him, in some small way, to find his way back towards his own name.

The Inspector yells, and I jump. I'm not sure, this time, why she feels she has to bellow my name instead of simply dialing my extension, but I'm still trying to calm my heart from that fight-or-flight response in order to go answer her. Constable Turnbull, at her service.

Later, there will be time to be Ray's Ren.

\--  
 _I'm not..._  
\--

...doing too bad today, as the day wears on. Managed to get through a bunch of reports, making sure all the followups were done. Avoided everyone who mighta made me crazy. I mean, there's no... good days, you know? When I gotta go into work and I can't be on the road, with my partner. Not anymore. But there are days that come close, and I think that's gotta be enough.

"Hey, Ray! You want a cappuccino?" Frannie calls, and it surprises me.

"Here? I thought the machine broke," I answer. "What, they get it fixed?"

The look on her face says it all; she rolls her eyes and snorts and it makes me smile. "No, but it's close enough to lunch time, so if you wanna go, I'll buy."

Sometimes, I really wonder what's up with her. Frannie? Offering to buy me a drink? Who replaced my sister with a pod person?

I kinda shock myself when I go, "Yeah, sure."

"Are you going to the Consulate?" she asks, and then I can see her angle, but I can't get annoyed by it. Yeah, it's kinda frustrating when my little sister is throwing herself at my...

Geez, I don't even know what to call him. Partner? Boyfriend? Nothing really fits. He's just kinda... my... Ren. He's just Ren.

"Is that a yeah, or no?" Frannie asks, and that's about when I realize I'm grinning a little bit. _Mooning?_ No. I don't wanna go there. She has that look on her face, like she might wanna ask questions, and then I shut it down. I don't wanna dodge that snowglobe on her desk.

"Yeah, sure, guess so." I grab my jacket and pull it on with a shrug; let her think it was her idea.

But the ride's not as bad as I expected it to be. I drive, and she doesn't talk about all the ways she wants to seduce Ren, which is a relief. Mostly, she talks about the weird call she got earlier from someone asking about underwear, and how he was a creep, and then she wings off into something about children I don't really hear.

"You ever think about it? I mean, now?"

I got no clue where this line of questioning comes from, and I guess I look pretty surprised.

"Yeah, I know, you did with Ange, but I mean now," Frannie elaborates, a little defensively.

"Nah," I say, shaking my head. "Boat's sailed, I wasn't on it. I'm too old for kids." And I'm dating a guy, and that kinda axes whatever last ditch midlife crisis I could have about it, but I don't tell her that part. "What, you thinking about your biological clock?"

"No! What biological clock? I'm not that old, Ray." She sticks her nose up and crosses her arms. "Unlike you, Mister One Foot in the Grave."

"Hey, hey! I didn't say I was one foot in the grave, Frannie. Just that I'm too old for kids." I don't feel as defensive as I sound, though. You know, most days I wanna get as far away from my family as I can, and especially Frannie 'cause I can't even escape her at work, but then there are times like these, and we're just brother and sister again, and it's like Vegas never happened. They always end, but I hang onto 'em when I've got 'em. "Besides, you're not exactly this year's fresh meat."

She swats me in the arm, and I gotta do all I can to look affronted, instead of grin. And she's gotta do all she can to look offended and not amused.

We stop at a coffee shop; it's a little out of the way, but true to her word, she gets me a cappuccino, and she gets a latte, and I buy Ren a cup of herbal tea, 'cause I don't wanna spring any caffeine on him while he's at the Consulate. Frannie tries to get that too, probably just so she can claim the idea, but I smirk at her. She thinks I'm doing it to be a jerk. Which hey, I'll admit it, I kinda am. But I'm also doing it 'cause I just want to.

Hey, it's enough that I'm even taking her by there. Sorry, Renny. It's only for ten minutes.

I'm not doing too bad today; I hope... man, do I hope... that he's not either.

\--  
 _I'm not..._  
\--

...even remotely prepared for Francesca. Still somewhat on edge from Inspector Thatcher, her banging through the front doors doesn't help matters, and it's one of those moments where I give honest consideration to climbing out the window. I'm not prepared for this _day_.

I think, for a moment, that she must have come here on her own accord, perhaps because she had to give up calling, as I persisted in answering in French. But then Ray comes in behind her, more sedately, and gives me an apologetic look...

...and I find I cannot really be angry. Today, apparently, is one of his good days. With the apologetic expression is layered amusement and warmth, and I forgive him even as Francesca is picking up my phone.

"Ah... Miss Vecchio--"

"We dated, Turnbull, so it's Francesca or Frannie," she answers, calling her own cell phone, and does not realize the irony of using my surname while saying this, as she speaks into one phone and listens in the other, perhaps expecting it to come out in French. Of course, I don't point that irony out to her. Nor do I allow myself to look remotely amused when she slams down my phone, looking baffled. It's wrong to find amusement in it. I'll keep telling myself that.

Ray, however, has no issue with looking amused; he sets a cup on my desk -- I'm uncertain as to what's in it, and immediately wonder how long it will be before I'm cleaning it up off of the floor -- and from behind her shoulder gives me that grin that makes it nigh well impossible to keep from grinning back.

I hide my own in a cough.

"So, why the French?" Francesca asks, and I manage to school my face and drop my hand, looking as innocent as I can, not answering. "You know, every time I call! Why the French?"

"Maybe you're dialing the wrong Consulate," Ray offers, coming to my rescue.

Francesca looks entirely doubtful for a moment, then narrows her eyes. "Oh, I get it. Well, let me tell you, it's not April Fool's," she says, poking me in the chest with one of her nails. "If you wanna play a joke on me, why don't you at least make it a good one?"

I look down at her hand, then back up at her. This is another case of allowing someone to believe what they want, and I give her a helpless-looking shrug. Admittedly, the sheepishness is more genuine -- yes, it's quite a childish way to avoid talking to someone.

"Satisfied?" Ray asks her, and I can see the Inspector pause to watch for a moment behind them both. She often has that look, when she does, as though she cannot comprehend what planet the Vecchios are from. For obvious reasons, this amuses me.

"Yeah," Francesca says, and she shoots me a look that is both ire and desire, before turning around and coming face to face with the Inspector. "Wow, you're letting your hair grow back out?"

Inspector Thatcher blinks, uncomfortably, flitting glances between Ray and I, before making an effort to be polite to Francesca, "Yes. It was time."

"It looks really good," Francesca says, and for a bare moment, something appreciative crosses the Inspector's face. "You know, if you need the name of a good salon..."

"That won't be necessary, thank you." Inspector Thatcher turns around and returns to her own office, and for a moment, I sincerely hope that Francesca will follow, if only so I could have a moment of peace with Ray...

...and that hope is answered.

It's only for a moment, but something in Ray relaxes and he grins again. "Sorry. She bought me a cappuccino. How's your day going? Got you some tea."

I have no idea exactly how those thoughts are related, but it doesn't matter. "It's... going, Ray. Thank you for the tea."

Ray flicks a glance to the door, listening to his sister's louder, more boisterous voice and the Inspector's cooler, clipped tones, and I realize he's about to kiss me only two seconds before he does, and that...

That...

 _That._

It's soft and warm, and I'm leaning over my desk braced on one hand, my other finding the back of his neck, and he is leaning over, bracing on one hand, and he purposefully makes a fine mess of my hair before we break off.

There is no hiding this grin behind a cough, but I'm doing the best I can to put my hair to rights even as Francesca comes breezing back in, talking on her cell phone, apparently making an appointment for Inspector Thatcher at a salon; I highly doubt it was agreed to, but it's not my business to mediate between them.

"Okay, got it. Six o'clock, next Wednesday. Thanks, Shirley." Francesca snaps her pink phone closed and pokes her brother with it. "We have to get back."

"Yeah." Ray manages composure well, at times, but there's no denying the playful, teasing, _smug_ glance he gives me when she's not looking. "See you after work, Ren."

Francesca, in the meantime, takes the liberty of leaning up and kissing me on the cheek. It's not entirely welcome, but I feel I owe her this, if for nothing else than making Ray smile.

Besides, I can still feel his kiss singing on my mouth, and it drowns hers out entirely.

They breeze back out, and _now_ I feel prepared for the rest of the day.

\--  
 _I'm not..._  
\--

...all that confident in my ability to keep this thing we got a secret.

I don't know why I ruffled his hair up, except I wanted... I guess I wanted to leave some kind of mark, you know? Some sign. _Ray Vecchio was here, and we're a thing._

Frannie didn't notice, though. But she's got plans, and she chatters on about them on the ride back to the precinct, and I guess I mostly tune her out because she's talking about landing him, but I already have -- or, the other way around -- and I guess it bothers me sometimes that I don't get to show it.

It's not that I don't get it. I mean, I'm not looking forward to anyone finding out, especially my family, 'cause I know that it's gonna go bad. But if I wanna kiss him, I shouldn't have to feel like I'm sneaking around, you know? If I wanna take his hand, or just reach out and touch him, I don't wanna feel like I'm somehow _wrong_.

Yeah, I get it. The Church. Being a cop. Being an Italian. All those mean problems. They'll even tolerate _divorce_ before they'll tolerate you being gay. I have no idea how my family will take it. I have no idea how the precinct will.

And I don't _care_. I'm not looking forward to it, but you know, no matter how hard I try, I can't find a single thing wrong with loving Ren. And believe me, I looked at all the excuses in the book before he even kissed me that first time, just analytical, trying to see how I felt about how _he_ felt, but what could I say? Nothing stuck.

I got a letter from Benny a few days ago.

I don't compare them. You know? It's like apples and oranges or something. They both wear that uniform, they're both Canadian, but they're so damn _different_. Except... I do compare them sometimes. But not the way people would think. Not like who's better, or what reminds me of who, but...

I love Benny. God, I can't ever say how much. I...

Sometimes I wonder...

God. I don't know.

But I love him, and I got his letter a few days ago, which was sent up from Florida, postmarked a few weeks ago from Canada, talking about how the adventure with Kowalski went. The letter was all Benny, too -- kind and excited, and guaranteed at least one Inuit story and something about his father and Buck -- and apparently, things are going good and Kowalski didn't lose any toes to frostbite and they're settling down somewhere around Whitehorse.

I wonder if Kowalski ever told him, if they're even a thing now. 'Cause I'm no idiot. I could smell the jealous boyfriend act. Yeah, I mighta been straight until recently, but I'm not stupid. I don't think Benny knew then, but maybe he does now. Maybe that's why Kowalski stays in Canada.

At the end, he talked about partnership, and how we would always be partners and friends.

It was there that I compared 'em.

 _I'm not going anywhere,_ Ren said to me, when he cut right through me, all that... burn of his reflected off the mirror of this car, where the beach grass hangs now. It scared the hell out of me at the time, and it still sometimes scares me even now, especially when he says it, like he's distilling his whole _soul_ into the words and offering it to me, unconditionally.

I'm not even close to good enough for him, just like I wasn't really good enough for Benny. My partner, my friend. That's the part the scares the Hell out of me.

When Ren says it?

I believe him.

\--  
 _I'm not..._  
\--

...feeling quite so suffused with ferocity at the end of the day as I was at the beginning of it. Inspector Thatcher is gone, and after Ray and Francesca had left, everything had... well, perhaps not run perfectly smoothly, but smoothly enough. I have finished all of my forms, the tea did not end up on the floor, I have changed into my street clothes, and now, I can wait for Ray.

His stolen kiss, his moment of affection; catching me off my guard, given while he was off his own. It's amazing, really, how much one single moment can change the flow of a day, shifting its form to something new, something warmer or brighter or better.

I wonder if he realizes that I miss him, when he's not near. I like to believe that he does. I wonder if he realizes that he reminds me of why I still try to find the line between joy and fear myself; if he realizes that it's for him that I do so, so that perhaps someday, those achingly rare unguarded moments we share will become commonplace.

I know, even as the days pass, that there is so much... difficulty left ahead of us, in so many ways. My own. His. Ours.

Those moments in between, though... those are enough. More than enough. I know that I am, as he says, mooning when he pulls up to the curb, and I know that I am smiling when I get into the Riviera, and he knows that it's for him.

Purely in defiance of the clear windows and open world, he leans over for a brief kiss _hello_. Nothing quite so heavy or hidden as the earlier one, but he's smiling even as he does it, and I can feel it as well as see it when he sits back, and I know that it's for me.

Today has been one of his good days.

Correction: One of our good days.

"Wanna go out to dinner?" he asks.

"Yes, Ray," I answer, buckling up, closing my eyes for a moment of contentment.

"Okay," he says, and I can hear him still smiling. "Let's see where we end up."

I'm not many of the things people believe that I am. Neither is Ray. I'm not sure what form tomorrow will take, or whether I am prepared for it, or whether it will be one of our good days or one of our bad days, or something else entirely.

It doesn't matter. Not right now.

I'm his Ren, he's my Ray.

No masks. And we drive.


End file.
